


One of these days

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Injury, Mention of torture, Specific Warrior of Light, Strong bromance, WoL is not actually dead, good communication, guys can hold hands too, he's fine, more important conversations on Beds, most of this is talking, strong relationships, this is a major indulgence, woL and thancred-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 07:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13313886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: And what shall you do, then? If your Warrior of Light is vanquished, to whom shall you turn?The Warrior of Light cannot keep fighting forever, and the Scions know this.... Do they?(reading of other works in series not required, although always recommended! ^^)





	One of these days

**Author's Note:**

> (For those of you who are new to the series: WoL is touchy-feely, and him and Thancred are fairly close by now.)

It isn’t an uncommon thing for the Warrior of Light to vanish from important headquarters detailing operations he is very much involved in not even a day after said operations have occurred. That being the case, no one pays it much heed when Rhalgr’s Reach has barely started to get its head settled on its shoulders and Ikael is nowhere to be seen. For all they know, he’s out somewhere rescuing someone’s lost kitten by aggressively drop-kicking a tree.

When Alphinaud runs through the Reach very loudly asking (one could even say yelling) at anyone who will listen to him if they have seen their violent figurehead, a few people start to worry. That being said, Alphinaud is a sweet soul, and tends to fret himself into snowy-haired knots whenever Ikael gallivants off into the face of danger, and so when he receives a few verbal head-pats and not much else in lieu of answers, he chooses to abandon his search until the next day.

It is the next day, now, and it is a busy one. The Scions are scattered about, either performing various chores (in wake of Ikael’s absence, most likely) or taking some time to rest and recover from their injuries.

Alphinaud has decided to harass his friends in the healers’ quadrant about their absentee Warrior of Light, and is in the process of fidgeting nervously as Krile reads over the crumpled letter he has handed to her with a frown on her face.

As soon as she is done she looks up at him, visibly alarmed. “Alphinaud!” she exclaims, “Why didn’t you go to anyone earlier?”

“I did!” he cries in response, wringing his hands in an agitated sort of manner. “Everyone said I was overreacting.”

Sitting on a cot nearby, Alisaie rolls her eyes.

“Did you show them this?” Krile asks.

“They didn’t give me the chance to,” Alphinaud says. “No one seemed to take me seriously.” A puzzled look passes over his face. “I don’t know why. I always have success when Ikael is around.”

“Yes. How odd,” Y’shtola intones. Then she turns to Krile. “What does it say?”

“It… details the contact information of a group of people Ikael has listed as his replacement,” Krile answers, sounding worried. “It seems that under the circumstance that he… that he has failed to check in with his retainers, they were to assume the worst and send this to us.”

“Who is assuming the worst? That’s not very sportsmanlike,” Thancred says out of nowhere, and flips a dagger in his hand. Alphinaud jumps a good few startled ilms in the air, and Thancred grins at him, leaning against the wall.

“Still looking for our elusive friend?” he asks, and blinks in surprise when Krile thrusts the letter at his waist.

He takes it, skimming it briefly. It’s written in a familiar scratchy script, and says,

_Hello everyone! This is Ikael. If you’re reading this, I’m most likely dead—_

Thancred looks up. “What is this,” he says flatly.

“A hyur showed up yesterday to give it to me,” Alphinaud tells him, and Thancred watches him carefully as he speaks. “He claimed to be Ikael’s retainer, and said that I-Ikael hadn’t checked with him for over a _week_ and—”

“Calm down, Brother.” Alisaie speaks up. “Before we all decide to lose our collective cool over something that Y’shtola and I have not even seen yet, may we at least know what it is?”

Thancred nods, and begins to read out loud:

_Hello everyone! This is Ikael. If you’re reading this, I’m most likely dead, but that’s okay! I’ve told Gaill and Simeon to give this letter to you in case I ever miss my weekly check-in. This details a ~~contingency~~ contingincy plan to help you lot deal with ~~your~~ the primals and all. I’ve talked to a few of my fellow adventurers with the Echo, and while we’re not friends, they’ve agreed to step in in case ~~I die~~ anything ever happens to me! I hope you will make them all feel welcomed, since it is very nice of them to help you out!_

“It… is very nice of them,” Alisaie repeats nonsensically.

“He spelled ‘contingency’ wrong,” says Thancred. “Ah… the rest of it seems to be names and necessary contact details… Oh—here at the end,”

_That’s about it! As a closing note, I just want to say that I love you all very much. The Scions have been like a family to me in more wa—_

“Stop,” says Y’shtola.

Thancred stops.

No one says anything for a moment. Thancred's grip tightens on the letter every-so-slightly, and an imperfectly-drawn heart gets crinkled.

Then they all begin speaking at once.

“This is ridiculous. He wrote this?” Thancred.

“All right, so are we looking for…” Alisaie.

“Well naturally, he can’t actually be…” Krile.

“He always takes off his linkpearl; they itch, you know.” Y’shtola.

“There’s no need to worry, I’m sure he forgets…” Alisaie again.

“He’s probably just buried underneath his mountain of responsibilities.” Thancred.

“Stop, stop!” Alphinaud has to raise his voice to get them all to shut up, but eventually they do, and one by one turn to look at him.

“This isn’t helping,” he says, spreading his hands. “We need to formulate a plan to find Ikael, not all try to step over ourselves.”

“Alphinaud is right.” Krile pipes up. “Which is why I volunteer to go look for him.”

Krile hasn’t known Ikael for as long as the rest of them, but he had always been open and warm towards her. When he had begun to shyly but firmly shower her in baked goods after her kidnapping (and had discovered her weakness for sweet tarts), he had easily won her heart.

“Krile, you cannot.” Y’shtola shakes her head. “You are still recovering. Ikael is very probably somewhere dangerous, and you just can’t take that risk.”

“He saved my life.” Her voice is quiet, but resolute. “I… I want to return the favour.”

“As do we all,” says Alisaie, “But we have to be reasonable. Brother, you said his retainer came to you?”

“He could still be here,” Alphinaud realizes, catching on. “Yes, I’ll—good idea. I’ll go see if I can find him. Thancred, Alisaie, come with me—I seem to have ill luck searching for people these days. You two, stay here in case Ikael shows up.”

“Look at you, doling out orders as if you’re in charge of us,” says Krile. Alphinaud starts to stammer out a reply, and she chuckles.

At the sound, everyone loosens a little, beginning to adjust to the situation. They will find Ikael—there is hope yet. He can't have gotten too far away, right?

“Right,” says Alisaie, and they set off.

~*~

“A tall hyur with tanned skin and brown hair, you say? Yes, that’ll be easy to find in Ala Mhigo.”

“He has an accent,” Alphinaud says, and Thancred snorts.

They have been searching for around ten minutes, and have quickly discovered that there are in fact a surprising amount of people in Rhalgr’s Reach, and that it takes time for Alphinaud to stop and squint at all of their faces.

“He has a point, Brother,” Alisaie tells him. “Without your invaluable help and guidance, we are blind.”

“Ikael mentioned two people in his letter,” Thancred interrupts before the two of them can start arguing. “Is this man Gaill or Simeon?”

Alphinaud pauses. “Ah…” he says.

Thancred stops. “You didn’t even ask his name?”

“He came up to me and gave me a letter that implied Ikael was dead! I wasn’t really in the state of mind to ask for his _name_.”

“Gods help us,” mutters Alisaie, looking around. “At least one. Please. Sometime.”

Then she says, “Oh,” and points.

Sitting near the edge of the water not too far away from them are two men. One is an elegant, handsome Au Ra holding a fishing rod, and the other is…

Rhalgr must be listening to Alisaie’s prayers. The other is a muscular hyur, with long brown hair falling across broad shoulders. His torso is completely bare, and there are pugilist hora lying discarded near his side.

“Yep. That’s him,” says Alphinaud promptly.

“Of course it is,” Thancred mutters. They make their way over to the men, who look up as they approach.

The hyur’s face splits into a grin when he sees Alphinaud. It is a strange look for someone whose master has just presumably died.

“Well if it ain’t the boy!” he exclaims. “Oi, Simeon, I told ye ’e’d come te find me again.”

“Yes, yes,” grumbles the Au Ra. “Doubtless they’ve come to express their condolences and assign us to a new master.” His long face is frowning, as if the idea of working more, even for pay, disagrees with him.

“That it?” says the man who must be Gaill. “You lot got ventures for us te work for ye?”

Thancred crosses his arms. “No,” he says shortly. “We’ve come to ask you about Ikael.”

“You want glory stories?” Simeon says moodily. “Well, here’s one: Gaill here somehow always gets more fish than me. I don’t know how. It’s not like you can punch a fish out of the water.”

“It ain’t like yer gonna find someone te take a fisherman, either,” Gaill returns. “Ye useless bastard.”

“Fish are a high market in Doma,” Simeon says primly. “Momodi knows that.”

“Do you not care that your master, as far as you know, is _dead_?” Alisaie snaps, interrupting them. “Doesn’t that bother you, even just a little?”

Gaill and Simeon look at her, and for a moment they both wear matching expressions of surprise.

“Ikael isn’t dead,” says Simeon. “We don’t believe that by a long shot.”

“Aye,” Gaill agrees. “Have ye seen ’im fight? ’e’s like a whole bloody battalion’s worth of firepower.”

“We thought…” Simeon frowns at them. “We thought you were going to reassign us.”

“But we don’t want ye to!” Gaill is quick to jump on that. “Someone’s gotta look for ’im, and I maybe ain’t worth as much as ’im in a fight, but I can ’old me own.”

“Brilliant. Great. That won’t be necessary,” says Thancred, who is quickly beginning to lose patience. “Just… tell us what you know about where he could be, and we’ll do all the fighting for you.”

“Ye and them ’ere kiddies?” Gaill asks. “Perhaps leave ’em out, aye?”

Thancred takes a deep breath. What is that meditating trick Ikael always uses to calm himself down? Something about chakras? He’s in Rhalgr’s Reach; perhaps he can find a monk to teach it to him.

“Oi, I started me monk training not too long ago,” Gaill says. “There’s a trick ’kael uses te calm down—and ye look stressed, mate. I can learn ye, if ye’d like.”

Thancred gets a sudden, random urge to punch something.

“The last time he checked in with us was roughly a week and a half ago,” Simeon says, either noticing Thancred's last lingering threads of patience leave his body, or realizing that they’re getting nowhere. “He said something about going to investigate a bandit encampment in Gyr Abania. It’s too dangerous for us to scour the area; we were going to—well, _I_ was going to—look for adventurers to hire.”

“Ah—half a bell later and we finally get the information we need,” says Alisaie.

“Thank you very much for your time, gentlemen,” Alphinaud thanks Gaill and Simeon with a short bow, “And I can assure you, Gaill, that my sister and I can handle ourselves just fine. Good day.”

And with that, they leave.

~*~

“Are you sure it’s there?” Alphinaud asks as they exit the Reach. “Raubahn said—”

“Raubahn said that there are two major bandit encampments in the area,” Thancred interrupts. “I can take one, and I trust the two of you can take the other? I could work a lot faster if I—”

He breaks off. They’ve rounded a large boulder that makes up part of the cliff face, and standing in front of them are half a dozen men, weapons pointed directly at them.

Ill-suited weapons, upon cursory inspection—and their armour is ill-fitting and rough, and one of them is dragging something behind him in a very unprofessional—

The something shifts, and suddenly looks like a body.

“Oh, gods,” Alisaie breathes.

“Who’s that?” slurs the body in an achingly familiar voice. “Sounds like… people. You should be… not here.”

“Shut up,” snaps one of the bandits, and kicks him. He makes a choking noise.

Then the bandit falls backwards, slowly, from the force of the dagger lodged in her skull.

“Uh…” says another, and steps forward. Thancred glares murderously at him.

The bandit clears his throat, and toes the body of his now dead comrade to the side a little. “W-we have come to… demand ransom,” he says.

Thancred throws another dagger. One of the bandits on the left end drops dead.

“Uh, h-hey! You can’t keep doing that,” says the one who had spoken up. His voice cracks halfway through his sentence.

He clears his throat.

“Twelve have mercy,” Alisaie mutters, drawing her sword.

“Oh no,” says the bandit.

“Oh _yes_ ,” says Thancred, and smiles.

~*~

Ikael is bloody, bruised, and battered when they reach him. That alone is evident, but they can’t see much else—he’s curled himself into a tight ball. He stays like that, even when Thancred kicks the last of the bodies away to clear a path.

“Ikael.” Alphinaud says the word as if he is afraid of it, and reaches forward to touch Ikael’s matted hair.

“Don’t—” Thancred grunts, but then Ikael’s head moves, and he’s looking at them.

“Hey,” he croaks. “I’m okay.”

He has dried blood smeared over an entire side of his face, his lip is cut, his eye is swollen shut, and there is an ugly purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone. He smiles.

“W-we’ve got to get you back to—we have to…” Alphinaud is starting to hyperventilate. Alisaie, beside him, looks horrified.

“I’ll carry him,” Thancred says, because he knows neither of them are going to be of any use at the moment. “You two, run back and get a bed prepared in the healers’ wing. Tell Y’shtola and Krile what happened, immediately.”

“O-of course,” says Alisaie. Her grip tightens around her sword.

Neither of them move. Thancred barks, “ _Now._ ”

They seem to come to themselves, and scramble off. Thancred turns his attention to Ikael, trying to assess his injuries. It’s hard, because he’s covered in blood and is still curled up tightly—

Thancred winces. “Ikael,” he says, “I need to have at least an overview of your wounds, all right? Can I see?”

“Mostly cuts and bruises,” says Ikael, not uncurling. “Arm is broken. Hurts to walk.” He burrows into his elbow.

Making him try and walk is the furthest thing on Thancred's mind. “Okay,” he says, deciding to accept that answer and not push, and carefully works his arms underneath Ikael’s form. Ikael lets out a hiss of pain, and Thancred utters a quick apology.

He straightens up with Ikael’s head tucked against his shoulder and his bad arm cradled to his chest. Ikael’s tail winds itself around Thancred's waist as if to hold him there.

Thancred swallows, and heads back to the Reach.

~*~

Krile and Y’shtola’s reactions are professional and prompt; they have seen many a bloody body in their time. Ikael is whisked off and ushered to a prepared bed, and then Thancred is being shooed away.

“I know you have to work,” he says to Y’shtola, looking at Ikael’s prone form lying some ways away, “But I have knowledge of his injuries that could help—I did carry him here.”

“Thancred,” Y’shtola says firmly, “You can’t. You barely know more than we do, and that is not worth your hovering.”

“I won’t hover!” Thancred gestures to where he had last seen Alphinaud and Alisaie. “I know he’s in a vulnerable state, Y’shtola, and I know that much is to be expected—I won’t gawp at him the entire time like those two!”

“Why are you so angry?” She challenges, crossing her arms, and he stares. “You’ve been moody this entire time. Nearly everyone you’ve interacted with has borne the sharp end of your tongue today. Is it just because of Ikael’s condition, or is it something else?”

Thancred exhales sharply, annoyed. Now is really not the time for—

—Ikael is looking at him. His gaze meets Thancred's just for a split second, and his eyes widen fractionally. He reaches out a hand, mouths something that almost looks like Thancred's name—

“I-I…” Thancred stutters.

A look of something close to sympathy passes over Y’shtola’s face. “Thancred,” she says, not unkindly, “You may see to him after. But right now, I have a job to do. I promise Ikael will live—from the looks of it, his injuries were inflicted to cause pain, not to debilitate.”

That does not make Thancred feel any better.

“And he is strong,” Y’shtola continues. “He will persevere. Now leave.”

Thancred gives Ikael one last look. Green eyes watch him hazily, then slowly drift shut.

Thancred sighs, and turns to leave. He will come back later.

~*~

It has been a day since Ikael has been brought in, and it has been a long one. He has been mostly unconscious, although he had had to be sedated at one point out of necessity, but he heals quickly, and his wounds are not severe enough to impair him.

The light of day is waning now, and the evening sun is kissing Ikael’s temple, creeping downwards to cup the bruise on his cheek. Y’shtola cannot see it, per se, but she can feel its warmth; on her hands, in her hair.

Ikael’s aether is stirring—he is close to waking. She gently pushes it back at him—waves in a sea—and it recedes.

No one else is near enough to see them. Y’shtola reaches out, not with her sight but with her hand, and finds Ikael’s head. His hair is soft—he had received a careful bath, although there hadn’t been much to be done while minding his injuries. But the blood has left his hair and the dirt has been washed off his face. It is enough.

Y’shtola finds his ear—long, furred. The area around it is delicate, and she scratches gently.

Ikael’s consciousness laps at the shores of awareness once more. His head turns, into her hand, and he purrs a little.

“You are an embarrassment to your race,” Y’shtola tells him softly, still petting him. He does not reply, and she smooths his right ear down from where it has been crushed against the pillow.

“Thancred is angry,” she says. “He does not like it when people get hurt needlessly—he is a passionate man, at heart. I only pray he will not take it out on you.”

The skin near Ikael’s eye feels swollen and angry. Y’shtola calms it with a touch of her aether.

“Perhaps it is something else, too,” she says. The sun is cooling, now. It leaves Ikael’s lips, lets him be underneath the blanket. Y’shtola can feel the world fall asleep.

“Perhaps we all fear that some day,” she says, “You will give up.”

~*~

_He is in so much pain._

~*~

 Thancred does not like waiting. He does not consider himself “fidgety” by any means—Ikael is the one who always runs off to perform some ridiculously mundane yet violent task—but he is used to being able to go wherever he wishes, to see whatever he wants to see.

Alphinaud and Alisaie are next to him. _They_ are fidgeting.

“He will be fine,” Alisaie says. It is the third time she has said it.

“Yes,” Thancred agrees, pressing his back to the wall. He does not doubt it; Ikael has come back from worse.

Their hair glows in the moonlight. Alphinaud tugs on his ponytail.

“I-I mean, psychologically, he’s been through worse, right?” he questions. “There was… well. There were probably a few things.”

Thancred gives a noncommittal hum. “Torture can’t be that bad when you’ve killed primals,” he intones.

“Right, of course,” Alphinaud mutters, apparently too distracted to detect his sarcasm.  

“He’ll be…” Alisaie trails off, catching herself this time.

“Fine, yes,” Thancred sighs. “If you truly are worried about his wellbeing, don’t be. Most of the damage is superficial, and aside from his broken arm, it should all mend soon. He’ll be off to do whatever it is you want him to soon enough.”

“Of course,” Alphinaud says. He frowns a bit, almost talking to himself. “The Warrior of Light would not be bested by a single band of bandits.”

Thancred closes his eyes. He does… _not_ like waiting.

“I’m going to go in,” he says abruptly. “Y’shtola may have need of me. Stay out here.”

He doesn’t say anything to else to them, and heads past the sliders.

He can hear voices speaking in low tones as he approaches, and recognizes them as Ikael and Y’shtola’s. He moves faster, not wanting to eavesdrop, but catches their conversation before he can announce himself.

“They threatened to cut it off,” he hears Ikael say in a muted voice.

“But they didn’t,” Y’shtola replies quietly. “You found a cruel group, Ikael—you are lucky they wanted you for ransom.”

“I am lucky the twins and Thancred showed up when they did,” Ikael says. “A miqo’te does not need his tail.”

Thancred clears his throat and raps on the wall, and Ikael looks at him. Y’shtola does not, doubtless already aware of his presence.

Ikael smiles, and Thancred feels something inside of him he hadn’t known was there unclench. Ikael’s smile is true, and not the façade of a broken man.

“Thancred,” Ikael greets, voice warm, and Y’shtola gets up as Thancred comes to sit by the bed. “I shall leave you be for now,” she tells Ikael, “And I will get some sleep. Call myself or Krile if you need to.”

He nods, and she leaves, tipping her head at Thancred.

They are alone.

Thancred waits a beat. Then he tells Ikael, “Your retainers are idiots.”

Ikael looks surprised for a moment, and then he laughs, low and long.

“My,” he says between chuckles, “They made quite an impression on you, didn’t they?”

Thancred thinks of Ikael’s letter. He remembers how some of the ink had been smudged near the end, around where Y’shtola had cut him off. “You should have cried more when you wrote your goodbye note,” he says. “And ‘contingency’ is spelled with an ‘e.’”

Ikael stops laughing. “Huh,” he says, eyeing Thancred carefully. “Who had the misfortune of pissing _you_ off, eh?”

 _You_ , Thancred wants to say, but that is neither true nor fair. Instead, he opens his palm, and drops a scrap of paper onto Ikael’s lap.

“I found your delivery,” he says, “But I do not know who it belongs to.”

Ikael’s features go lax. He reaches out and thumbs the paper.

Thancred says, “You could have killed them.”

“I could not.” Ikael’s gaze darts to his. “There were so many of them, Thancred. It would have been…” He looks back at the note.

“Easy,” says Thancred. _For you._

“A huge loss of life,” Ikael says.

 He is holding the paper between his thumb and forefinger, and smooths it out. It is small, just two short sentences written in the hand of a dying man:

_Juliah, I am sorry. I love you, sweetheart._

Written… _almost_ in the hand of a dying man.

“Will she not fail to recognize the handwriting?” Thancred asks.

Ikael shakes his head. “She is six,” he says. “And she has naught of his.”

“And now she will have the knowledge that he is dead,” Thancred says.

Ikael’s eyes narrow at him. “Must you be so callous?”

“You are feeding lies to a child which took you a week to craft,” Thancred replies. “Perhaps she should know that there was nothing of him left.”

“There was nothing left of a man she barely knew,” Ikael bites. “There was something left of a man who was cruel, who tortured people for the pleasure of it, who killed ruthlessly, and yes, it took me a week to choose which one I wanted her to find.”

 _Was? But…_ “You did not kill him,” Thancred realizes. He couldn’t have—he would have been too physically weak.

“No.” Ikael slumps. “You did.”

Thancred looks at the soft glow of the oil lamp, casting long shadows across their section of the wing. He thinks.

Eventually, he says, “One day you will not be able to keep fighting.”

Ikael closes his eyes tiredly. He says, “I know.”

“Hydaelyn’s blessing does not extend past death,” Thancred tells him, and suddenly he is irritated.

Ikael’s eyes snap open. “I _know_ ,” he repeats, and perhaps the week _has_ taken its toll on him, because he matches Thancred’s tone.

“You keep risking your life for pointless tasks.” Thancred keeps going. It is spilling out of him, now, the words tripping over themselves. “Whatever people tell you to do, you do it. If anyone so much as looks at you with a sad expression, you help them.”

Ikael looks annoyed. “That’s what I _do_ ,” he says. “I help people. It’s in the _job description_.”

“And if Alphinaud tells you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?” Thancred challenges. Ikael’s ears flatten back. “You would become a hero—his famed Warrior of Light. But you do not care about that, do you? So why do I know you would say yes?”

They are on the edge of a precipice, he knows. And they can both—

“What is it exactly that you have a problem with?” Ikael asks, and he is glaring at Thancred now. “Spit it out; I cannot play your word games right now.”

So they are doing this, are they? Fine.

“You are a _person_ , Ikael,” Thancred snaps. “Not a machine. _Our_ choices we make by _ourselves_ , and it is not your job to save us from them!”

“You are my friends!” Ikael cries. “You’ve got to learn to _accept_ help when it is offered, Thancred—you cannot just wallow in self-hatred forever!”

“ _I can deal with my own problems!_ ” Thancred snarls, because, oh, that had hit a mark he hadn’t been protecting. “I don’t need your _godsdamned_ help—I don’t need you to sacrifice your own wellbeing for me!”

“Oh, so I can’t make _my_ own decisions, is that it? I just have to let you run yourself into the ground because you’re too much of a stubborn _arse_ to admit that you need my help!?”

“I don’t _want_ it! One day it will be too much for you, Ikael, and I will not let you send yourself to the Void for dealing with _my_ swivving problems because you’re too _bloody_ soft to leave well enough alone!”

His words echo around them. The silence that follows is not entirely unexpected, but becomes more unbearable the longer it lasts.

Shock has settled over Ikael’s face. Then his features slacken, and Thancred watches him retreat into himself. He curses quietly. Ikael’s eyes widen at the sound.

“I…” Ikael’s voice is dry. He swallows, and purposefully directs his gaze to Thancred's collar.

He says, hoarsely, “Please leave.”

Thancred cannot deal with this. He cannot deal with Ikael not fighting back, not—

He shuts his eyes. He is still angry. He is…

The whole quadrant must have heard them.

He can’t. He gets up without a word, and leaves.

~*~

Outside, Y’shtola sighs. That could have gone better.

“This is why communication is important,” she tells Alphinaud and Alisaie, who are standing there with conflicting expressions. Alisaie seems to be caught in a permanent wince, and Alphinaud is simply staring, wide-eyed.

“ _Idiots,_ ” Y’shtola mutters, and Alphinaud starts.

“I—why didn’t you—you could have intervened!” he says. “Ikael… that was not fair to him! He…”

“You are only saying that because you feel guilty,” Alisaie tells him, rolling her eyes. “He is not without his faults, Brother, like any other person. And Thancred isn’t wrong.”

“I didn’t intervene because Ikael is a grown man, and that… _conversation_ has been a long time coming,” Y’shtola says. “Although in retrospect, it could have at least waited until he could walk properly.”

“Gods, this whole thing is a mess,” Alisaie says. “And I feel like we’re just here to eavesdrop and provide colourful commentary.”

“Then let us leave,” Y’shtola replies, and ushers them away. “Surely there is more drama in the Reach than that which involves our dear comrades.”

~*~

Someone is lying next to him. Ikael becomes aware of this quietly, the information trickling into his head with the rest of the morning: The lamp by his bedside has gone out. His good arm has fallen asleep. The sun is up. He is hungry. Someone is lying next to him.

He glances down, barely moving his head, and sees white hair fanned out on the bedsheet, framing a handsome but tired face. _Thancred_.

Ikael’s breath catches, but he lets it escape. When had Thancred… no matter. They… need to...

“Thancred,” Ikael says into the quiet of the morning.

Thancred's eyes open, and Ikael can see the second it takes him to come to full awareness. It is short.

Thancred looks at him. One of his eyes is shot silver. Ikael has already seen it. He wonders idly where Thancred's bandana is.

Thancred breathes in, then out. Regret slowly snakes its way across his face.

“I am sorry,” he says, voice quiet.

Ikael turns his head, looking up. Above him, shadows are softening into existence. Ikael wonders what it would be like if he could touch them.

He says, “Me too.”

Thancred shifts closer to him and moves to join his gaze. Ikael leans into him. They stay like that for a short eternity.

Eventually, Ikael says, “I… I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“And I shouldn’t have challenged you so,” Thancred responds immediately.

“I mean… ever.” Ikael shifts, and lays his good arm across Thancred's chest. He needs the comfort the contact brings. “I need to… I need to let you sort things out by yourself sometimes, I know.”

Thancred reaches up to find Ikael’s hand, and pulls it down. He cradles it in his own as Ikael searches for words.

“I want to help you if you’re hurting,” Ikael says, voice going hoarse. “Please. I care about you.”

“I know,” Thancred replies, equally quiet. “I know, Ikael. It is… hard for me, to accept your help especially. You of all people have so much on your plate.”

“I can’t help it,” Ikael whispers. “I have to do it, Thancred. Everything that… no one else can. I made my contin… _gen_ cy plan, but even then…”

“I know,” Thancred repeats. He squeezes Ikael’s hand.

It is quiet.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Ikael breathes. In this moment, he feels as if neither of them exist.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Thancred promises. Perhaps he feels the same.

“I hate it,” Ikael says. “I hate the words ‘Warrior of Light.’ I hate the way people look at me. I hate—” His voice starts to crack. He takes a shaky breath. “I hate being everyone’s first resort. But… helping people is different. If I can tell myself I’m doing it to help people… I can get through it, whatever it is. And helping you?” Breath. “The people I care about? Sometimes I feel as if it is the only thing that keeps me sane.”

“… Alright,” Thancred says. “Alright.”

Another small eternity passes. Ikael asks, “Can we make a compromise?”

“Far ahead of you, my friend.” There is a smile in Thancred's voice, and it makes Ikael give a watery one as well.

“I help you,” Thancred says, “And… yes, you help me. But there is a word we both have to respect, without question.”

“What is it?” Ikael asks.

Thancred says,

“‘No.’”

The sun has discovered the shadows on the ceiling, and is chasing them away. Ikael’s body pulses, maybe with pain. He ignores it.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Okay, I can do that.”

~*~

“See, I told you he would still be here!” a voice exclaims, and then half of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn are crowding around Ikael. “Oh… and Thancred too, I guess?” Krile continues.

Thancred, seated on the side of Ikael’s bed with a book of what appears to be… questionable poetry, acknowledges her with a nod.

“What do you mean, I’d still be here?” Ikael asks, carefully sitting up. He winces when he jostles his broken arm.

“You have a habit of running off,” Alisaie tells him with a faint smile. “To solve… whatever great mystery has caught your attention.”

“The only mystery right now is that smell,” Ikael snorts. “Did someone burn down a bakery?”

They shift around, one could say nervously.

“… Er,” says Alphinaud.

Krile lifts up her arms, and now Ikael can see the golden-brown (and somewhat black) pie she carries.

“Oh,” he says, looking at it. The crust is falling off the tin on one end, and the lattice is unevenly placed and a… _bit_ burnt.

“Ah… it’s beautiful,” Ikael says with a warm smile, and all of them unconsciously relax. Y’shtola sighs.

“I was worried,” she mutters. “But we are glad you like it.”

“We wanted to do something for you,” Alphinaud says, “Since you do so much for us with nary a complaint.”

“Aw,” Ikael drawls. “Thank you all. And now I have lunch!”

Thancred glances up from his book to peer at the proffered confection. “Good gods, what is that?” he exclaims.

Ikael kicks him. “Really, I love it,” he tells his friends. “It’s… ah, fairly big, so…”

“We shall all partake,” Y’shtola says, sounding resigned. “We can’t subject you to the entire thing. I told you you put it in for too long.” The last sentence is directed at Krile.

“ _I_ wasn’t the one who insisted on placing it on the lowest rack! Alphinaud said…”

They start arguing, and Ikael smiles to himself, tipping his head back until it is resting against the slide behind him. It is past midday, now, and the sun is shining hot and strong, determined to obliterate any shadows in sight. It beats down on the Scions as they speak over one another, sliding in between their words, keeping the edges warm.

Family indeed.

~*~

 

**Author's Note:**

> it hurt me in my soul to make them fight, and the rest of the fic is just completely indulgent therapy for that lol
> 
> (shoot me something u want me to write on [ tumblr ](http://draw-you-coward.tumblr.com/) or just talk to me ^^)


End file.
